


Everybody's got a story

by Feather (lalaietha)



Series: Settle in and find your home [8]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Grief, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam has his own personal history too, Sam is a mental health professional, Sam needs a goddamn hug, also Sam has his own trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 03:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11455143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/pseuds/Feather
Summary: Sam has a friend come to visit.





	Everybody's got a story

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place slightly after Bucky disappears for the first time in part one of _your blue-eyed boys_ ; Sam is unaware of this, as Steve never told him it happened.

The world keeps not-ending. Sometimes, Sam's not sure how. 

 

 _Coaching_ is the metaphor that strikes him, on the fifth day, after Steve calls him on his run in the morning. 

Sam can't argue with Steve's logic on doing things by text and email when he's in the condo: if Barnes' hearing really is as good as Steve's doing otherwise would be . . . not great. Sam has no idea how _anything_ would strike the guy, what would set off paranoia and what wouldn't, but even if you're a mostly balanced, mostly stable person it's never fun to listen to someone talk to someone else about how hard it is to deal with your problems. Not even if you totally agree with everything they say. Since this counts as so far away from "mostly balanced, mostly stable" in any way shape or form - well. 

He goes and gets a little keyboard for his iPhone, one that folds up, because his hand gets tired and cramped up texting, but he does _not_ want to put the texts through his work computer even if he could find a program that meant he could. And constantly reminds himself that it _still_ counts as a bad idea to try and go over there, that he's _still_ just an extra variable in a situation that doesn't need them, and anything he can tell Steve, he can tell Steve from here. 

So _coaching_ settles in his head. Coach doesn't get to run in there and actually make the plays, or even help set them up - all the coach gets to do is yell from the sidelines. But that's what he does, all the time. Or, if he's lucky, pull the player off and talk him through shit. What he's doing, Sam thinks, is honest to God coaching Steve through handling this, and it's even less fun than he expected it to be. 

He's actually even got a playbook - or rather, a notebook, and it's full of goddamn notes. Notes on more than he thinks Steve realizes Sam's even paying attention to, or tracking, and Sam's not going to draw Steve's attention to the fact he is. Steve's already uneasy enough, defensive enough. It mostly starts to fill up _after_ day five, after that phone call, because that day's sort of the first breaking point. 

On day five, Sam reminds Steve it's a waiting game, and that honestly the best thing he can do is stay very still. "Not to get all Daoist on you," he adds. He also suggests he should send Steve a reading list - like it's a new thought, like he doesn't already have like what amounts to an entire course's reading laid out _hopefully_ in ways Steve's gonna be able to follow - and at least doesn't get a negative, just gets Steve saying he'd check what Stark already sent. 

Why exactly Stark's only direct response to Steve's new house-guest has so far been a bunch of books off Amazon and a bunch of articles off JSTOR . . . the best explanation Sam can think of is that _Potts_ acquired a reading list of her own _dealing_ with Stark's bullshit ("armchair diagnose Iron Man" had been a spectator sport around the office for a bit there, until after the Mandarin blew him up) and passed that along. Otherwise, Sam's got no idea. 

They talk around in circles for a minute before Steve admits that what's really worrying him is food - that Barnes' caloric intake, what he's taking from the kitchen overnight, is way too low, at least by the best measure Steve's got - which is himself. 

Sam's gut knots _right_ up over the idea of what the fuck to do if the guy goes into arrhythmia from malnutrition, or renal failure from dehydration. He kind of stares at the problem and then puts it to one side, puts it in the box of "I don't even know what the fuck to do" and says, wryly, "Well, if he does keel over from heart problems, make sure you _warn_ the hospital you take him to."

"Thanks," says Steve. "That's very helpful." And Sam's got to give him a point for how he just sounds wry in return, instead of sounding bitter. 

"Let me know what Stark sent you," is all he says. "I'll tell you if it's bullshit or helpful and add anything else I can think of."

He hesitates, but figures it has to be said. "And make sure you're taking care of yourself," he adds, and he lets his voice shift over out of friendly-helpful and into the way you order around someone you can't actually order around. "Put on your own oxygen mask first and all that."

Steve gives him the most insincere, "Yeah," Sam has ever heard. He snorts, and sets himself to have an argument, because - well, he kinda has to. 

"Try sounding less convincing, Steve," he says. "I don't think you're giving me your best effort here." 

He lets the voice move to having an outright edge as he goes on. "I mean it. You keel over, what's he got?" He lets that sit in the silence for a half a beat before pushing with, "He sure as shit isn't gonna let me take over."

When Steve finally says, "That's playing dirty," Sam can hear all the lashing out Steve's not doing, kept roped right in. And it's maybe an acknowledgement that Sam's right, but Sam decides that right now it's not quite enough, even if pushing harder does lead to Steve having a temper tantrum. 

"Where I come from we call that common sense," he retorts, a bit sharp. "I think they call it more or less the same where you come from, too." He braces himself and goes on, "You've got the hard road this time - you don't get to nobly sacrifice yourself once and then die your way out of the aftermath, you have to make sure there's enough left to keep going tomorrow."

That _is_ fighting a bit dirty, and it's a bit unfair - but only a bit. And whether it's unfair or not, worded like that, it's still _true_ underneath. And it gets through, properly through: Sam can tell by how much defensiveness Steve's trying (and failing) not to show when he says, "I got it, Sam." 

Later that afternoon, Sam gets a flurry of texts about finding Barnes in the room with a lot of broken furniture, holes in the wall, and injuries to himself. About Steve patching him up, Barnes asking questions about falling off the train, even telling Steve that the reason for so little food going missing is that most food, Barnes throws right back up. About making canned chicken-noodle soup and toast and sharing it. 

That's when Sam's notebook starts to fill up. That night, and after. Lots of ink, lots of sketches, lots of ideas, lots of curses and . . . only so much that's worth passing on. Only so much that's anything more than a coach's _keep going, you can do it._

Sam does actually know that kind of thing matters, and matters a lot. It's just . . . not a lot to go on, when the consequences if it turns out Steve _can't_ are as high as they are. And Sam's not sure he can. He's sure Steve'll die trying, but _that's an option on the table_ , when it comes right down to it. 

That would be bad enough, but this is bigger than Steve, really. Neither of them bring that part up, it's not worth bringing it up, but it _is_ bigger than Steve, bigger than the man mostly still huddled in his spare room. If things go wrong, people could die - a lot of people. Maybe a _whole_ lot of people. 

And even just in texts, and emails, and phone-calls every couple of days, Sam can hear the strain he's not even sure Steve's acknowledging. 

 

At one point Steve just says it, just says, _I'm not used to people being scared of me._ Which doesn't just have a _lot_ unspoken behind it, it has . . . a whole world, a whole universe about who Steve is and what he thinks is important and where he looks to figure out whether he's worth . . . anything. 

And Sam sits at his desk with his face in his hands for a few minutes and tries to find a way to help Steve think about it that isn't going to make it worse. 

 

He knows it's wearing on him. More than that, he knows the months before - the ones where he was taking off _with_ Steve every few months, then coming back to work - are starting to catch up with him now that his head's realized that part is over. But he knows this, here, now, this is wearing on him, because when things seem quiet over Corinne and Cara way, he can't quite . . . well, he can't quite bring himself to dig a bit and check that it's _okay_ quiet, that it really is things are fine, and isn't just that things are building up. 

Right now he can actually handle the crisis better than he can handle doing the preventative diagnostics, so to speak, and that's not a great sign. 

Laura's covering for him, some. Actually, she's doing it a lot, and when he stops by to thank her she tilts her head at him and says, "Sam, I'd arrange for a leave of absence for you, but first of all I know you won't take it and second of all I'm not sure it would actually be good for you to have all that time on your hands to think too much about things you can't actually change. But _tell_ me if you need help, would you?" 

Sam promises her he will - well, that's what he says aloud, although all he really promise is to tell her that he'll let her know if he thinks there's anything she can do. That's not quite the same thing. He knows it. 

 

What he ends up doing is honestly crossing off days until Madlen's visit, until he has the excuse of her curiosity (because he knows it's working already) to lay all of this out in front of her and for her to agree with him how fucking awful it all is, and that he's doing as much as he can. Or at least, if he's not, she'll tell him that, too. And she'll be right, whichever way it goes. 

There's definitely still a part of him that wishes, not _that_ they'd got married in the end, but that they _could've_. That all the things - all of them seemingly small, but somehow . . . not, not when you're living them, really living them, every day - that got in the way hadn't done. He's never regretted the choice to end things, but he's always regretted they had to make it. 

And right now there's something about someone who's known you since you were an awkward seventh-grade jerk, all the way through all of your shit, and still thinks you're worth being close to, that Sam kinda wants. A lot. 

 

In theory, Madlen is supposed to arrive at Sam's place around six in the evening. She's coming to the US because she's speaking at some sort of conference in Baltimore first, and then hopping across to another one in LA before flying back to Haiti - or, as she puts it, going home. 

Sam's still not totally on board with that re-framing. Of course, it's not up to him, or even any of his business, and he doesn't say a word and never will. But it's still hard to think of it like that. Selfishly, he doesn't really want somewhere _other than the United States_ to be "home" for her. 

He has to admit Madlen probably has settled. She hasn't even talked about moving on from her current NGO for ages, where she used to bounce around - not in a bad way, but in the way that was Madlen bouncing in, fixing shit up, making shit work, training someone to take over, and then moving on to the next mess that needed her. There aren't a lot of people who can actually do that and make it work, but as far as Sam knows all five of the previous projects are still going strong, and still talk about her like a favourite aunt, or something. 

But this one, even though it's working - "integrated child betterment drawing on holistic perspectives and family systems", the idea being you can't help the kids if you don't make sure their families and homes are okay, so you try to do that even if it seems like Sisyphus had it easier than you do - seems to keep Madlen's attention, keep her basically satisfied - at least once you add in the speaking engagements. 

And the thing with Ruis, the guy she's been with for a few years, does seem to be settled and stable, in for the long haul. Sam kinda hopes she gets married. Madlen's always wanted that. 

But it's still hard to think of somewhere other than the US as her _home_ , as ridiculous as that sounds. 

She'd added the Baltimore conference _after_ Sam asked her when she thought she'd be back in the US, and he's pretty sure she did it in part because it gives her an excuse to come stay with him that lets her skip saying _you actually asked me for something, as much as you ever do, and now I'm worried about you_. On the other hand she's getting a pretty nice honorarium and managing to make the costs disappear, so he doesn't feel too guilty. 

So theoretically, she'll get there at six in the evening on Wednesday, she can relax on Thursday a bit while Sam goes to work, and Sam arranges to work from home on Friday, while she preps for the conference, and they can just . . . be company. It's a great theory. 

Of course, "theory" goes off the rails almost at once, starting with a delayed flight at her first stop-over on Wednesday. She tells him to go to bed, she'll get a cab whenever she gets there. Sam does, but with the kind of feeling you get sometimes, where it's only downhill from here. 

When he gets up to go to the bathroom at around midnight there's a string of texts from the last two hours that are pretty much just her swearing about US Customs and a few other things, but the last one says, _OK I AM FINALLY IN THE DAMN COUNTRY WITH ALL MY SHIT I FUCKING HATE FLORIDA SO MUCH SHOULD BE AT YOUR PLACE BEFORE YOU GO TO WORK YES THIS IS ALL CAPS ON PURPOSE FUCK_. 

She rings the doorbell and wakes him up at about three-thirty. When he opens the door she just looks at him with an expression that tells the whole story and says, " _Oh. My God. Samuel._ It is a miracle you are not bailing me out on fucking murder charges." 

He gives her a hug, or possibly she gives him a hug, and he can't tell if it's a long hug because of him or because of her or both. He helps her carry her stuff to the guest-room, and chuckles as she drops everything just out of the way of the door and says, "Fuck I don't even care," and crawls into the bed. She waves. "Good night, Sam, go back to bed, three-forty-five is too early even if you are gonna insist on running in the morning." 

"Nope," he says. "Definitely skipping that." 

 

In the morning Sam makes oatmeal instead of going for his run. He adds apples and cinnamon because he can. He's tired, but at least one facet of the last few months has its advantages: being back to being way too acquainted with _soul-crushing exhaustion, emotional and physical_ , Sam now feels a kind of unconcerned equilibrium with merely being _tired_ , and all the old management skills kick back in. Like just sort of letting all the fine details he doesn't need to pay attention to pass him by a bit. 

Madlen shuffles out of the guest room sleepy-eyed and a little frizzy-haired around the edges. Her makeup's smudged around her eyes, and she's still in the short-sleeved shirt and loose linen pants she showed up in last night, although somewhere in the couple hours of sleep she got rid of the belt and her socks. She squints at Sam. 

"Why the hell did I think it was a good idea to just crawl into bed in what I was wearing without doing anything else?" she demands. She has the pouting frown that she gets when she's not properly awake yet and she's trying to be funny-cute-grumbly rather than actually waspish. 

"Because you were really, really tired," Sam reminds her. "Apparently from the effort of not murdering anyone." 

"Right, I remember." She sighs and rubs her eyes, making the raccoon-y effect of her makeup even worse. Then she yawns. 

Sam hands her a bowl and reminds her that the sugar's in the second cupboard over the stove because he doesn't really put sugar on much. Madlen mutters about still having a sugar-bowl for guests, sits down at the table and then looks crestfallen. "I forgot the cream," she says, plaintively, as if Sam's not going to bring it to the table. He smiles, shaking his head, and doesn't comment: she really does look tired. 

He sees and appreciates the big effort it takes, given that tired, for her not to say anything about how it doesn't make sense he's so cagey about sugar when he's happy to pour full-fat cream on everything. It means he gets to skip the patient explanation of why simple sugars are actually the biggest dietary problem in the developed world, and the crusade against fat is a total misfire. Or the moment of biting his tongue not to. It's the little things. 

"What all happened yesterday, anyway?" he asks, instead, sitting down and bringing the coffee with him. 

"Every damn person I had to deal with either had someone piss in their cornflakes or drank stupid with their morning coffee, that's what," Madlen replies, the retrospective glower absolutely crystal clear in her voice. "I mean - I'll be fair, the delay wasn't really anyone's fault, or that it turned into being cancelled - mechanical shit on the plane," she fills in, "and okay yeah everyone was pissed so it was tough for the agent working out who they could cram on the next flight and who was gonna have to figure something else out, so in retrospect I'll give her a pass. After that, though?" 

Her look is dire, and speaks for itself. It speaks volumes. Possibly entire collections. 

She gives him the whole story as they eat, and her summary was pretty good, to be honest - not that he's surprised, seeing as Sam knows that Madlen while travelling is actually Madlen being the sweetest she can be (which is pretty damn sweet) right up to the point that snaps, which is generally about three steps beyond where Sam would have already lost his temper. So if everything was running her to the point of wanting to strangle people and actually closing on losing her temper - well. 

Naturally, the reaction to Insight by the wise and temperate leaders of the nation (Madlen's words, sarcasm so acid it could've etched steel) had and has been to make border-crossing tighter, nastier and more hostile. The TSA's turned air travel screening an even bigger kind of mess, totally ignoring that Insight had come from US citizens (US-born US citizens, born of US-born US citizen parents and grandparents, no less), using shit built right at home in the USA and not even remotely involving an airport. Why let a little thing like "facts" get in the way of more security theatre? 

So to start with the whole _thing_ is all the more unpleasant, which Sam himself has in fact experienced. Hell, when he and Steve were still travelling regularly, it took only one round doing things like ordinary guys for them to throw it out and take advantage of Captain America recognition - they still went through the whole dance, but suddenly with people only too happy to help and be nice and make everything run like fucking clockwork. That's how bad it is normally. 

Sam doesn't think Madlen coming from Haiti would have helped matters much, and neither does she, though she'll admit nobody actually crossed into something you could use in an educational video - probably for the best, given how frustrated she got already. But that's just the normal way of things, now. 

Then the Customs guy decided to forget how to work his own computer system or something, resulting in him calling over a supervisor after his terminal locked up or shut down or _something_ , while Madlen stood in front of the desk staring and biting her tongue, and a cranky security guy reorganized the line behind her to the remaining agents. 

It'd taken long enough she'd missed her connecting flight, which had led to her having an outright fight with the ticketing agent and almost one with that agent's supervisor that only got derailed when the supervisor actually seemed to notice the name of the conference Madlen was going to, on the packet she'd pulled out so she could wave printed tickets and receipts at the woman. Notice the name of the conference, and notice how the crap on the folder included things like _in partnership with the UNHCR_ and _in partnership with the Human Rights Action Centre_ and all kinds of other shit, and also had Madlen's name on it next to _special speaker_ , and all the other little tells that she might be fucking with more than she wanted to handle. 

"Swear to God," Madlen says, "you could _see_ her recalculating everything. Like you could watch it happen, like there was a little marquee going right across her forehead: 'hey what happens if this doesn't stop with just this bag in front of me, what happens when _my_ boss gets a call from the office of Dr Tamora Schneider, Liberty Medal recipient, OBE, whatever the hell else someone's awarded her with this month, asking why I was an unhelpful obstructive bitch to her invited speaker? What happens if this goes on Twitter, especially via _her_ Twitter, and exactly how fast will my bosses throw me under the bus, so that they can claim it's not that this entire company is a toxic stew out to fuck its customers over, it's just me doing something wrong?'" Madlen rolls her eyes. "And magically, it turned out my booking transferred across after all, and the delay didn't count as my fault and they even had a goddamn seat on the next flight. I didn't even ask for that part," she adds, "I _was_ willing to wait till morning, and I hope I didn't fuck anything up too bad for whoever I kinda suspect they bumped to get me there, but God Samuel I was so fucking tired by then I just took it." 

She sighs, oatmeal done, leaning back in her chair with her coffee in her hands and says, "That's when I texted you. Last thing I hear as I'm walking away is her telling off the counter-guy, and alright he was an asshole, but he didn't actually deserve that, since she was just as bad. But that was basically my entire day yesterday." 

In between those main points of frustration are smaller things - crying baby on the Florida-DC flight, a rude seat-mate, flight attendants being short and unhelpful, that kind of thing. "And I'm pissed off enough," she adds, "that I'm still this close to telling Tamora she needs to call up the goddamn airline and tear a strip off them because I am pretty goddamn sure if it'd been her standing there she would not have gotten half the shit I did. And she'd do it, too. Probably piss her off more than it does me." 

"Really?" Sam asks, giving her a look and Madlen snorts, acknowledging the point. 

"Okay," she says, "probably she's got more energy to act on being pissed off about it than I've got." 

"Okay that I will give you," Sam grants. "She's the lady I met last time you were here, right? Older white lady, kinda impressive, white hair, glasses on a chain - ?" 

"Yeah that's Tamora," Madlen confirms, before sipping her coffee. 

Sam can believe that's a lady who's good at dressing people down, too - _her_ description of her position had been _the one who goes around browbeating the useless and hopefully being more help than hindrance to the useful in the hopes of making things work_. He can't remember what she'd actually been chairwoman of, but he does remember it was something prestigious, and something of the kind that gets you a dozen medals from half a dozen different governments. 

Madlen sighs. "At least the cab-driver just shut up and got me here. And don't apologize," she finishes quickly, waggling a finger at him. "Luck happens to everyone, if I didn't come here first it'd probably have all happened on my way to LA and then I'd've been checking into a hotel, so probably _more_ people with pissed-in cornflakes or sudden stupidity, and I'd've been doing it the day before the conference, instead of with a two day buffer to get my composure back." 

Sam shakes his head, half-smiling, "Alright then, I won't apologize." She makes a point of giving him a thumbs up and he rolls his eyes at her. 

By the time he's ready to go out the door she's pulled her suitcases apart a bit and has an armful of things to put through the wash. "Time ran out on me before I was packing," she says, a bit apologetic, like there's any reason she can't use his washing machine. She asks what time he's done, and he tells her not to worry about dinner or anything because they can sort it out when he gets home. 

Knowing, of course, that she'll totally ignore that. It's the little things. She says she's going to spend most of the day sleeping, and he's got no idea if he believes her or not. She might. Or she might hit workaholic mode. It's hard to tell. 

Either way, she tells him thanks for letting her stay, and he tells her thanks for coming, and honestly the hug after that makes him feel a bit better about everything as he heads out to work.

******

When Sam gets home from work around six, Madlen's awake and most of the way through cooking some kind of seafood pan-fried something that smells amazing. Some folk-y, gentle-sounding singer-songwriter's on the stereo, and Madlen's swaying a little to the music as she moves around his kitchen. She's got her hair twisted back into a knot, all frizz contained and the front covered by a dark blue headband, dangling earrings made of interlocking metal triangles, and basically looks like she's walked right out of somebody's image of perfect domestic harmony.

And Sam can tell just by looking that she's _already_ rearranged his fridge to suit herself and he's gonna have to put it back on Sunday after she leaves. And bought groceries, specifically all the stuff she thinks he should have in the fridge or the freezer and he doesn't have in the fridge or the freezer, mostly because he never _eats them_ before they go bad, fridge _or_ freezer: never has, and never will. 

He also privately bets himself a new bottle of the good rum, as he walks in the door, that among the first things she's going to say is something incredulous about his laundry arrangements, and thinks _bingo_ when she looks up at him coming in and says, "You seriously still don't have clothesline, Sam? Or even one of those racks?" 

That says pretty much everything about them, he thinks. 

It's actually a fond, warm kind of thought. Right now, for a handful of days of her staying in his house (or theoretically him staying in hers), or even quite a long time of living in totally different spaces but in and out of each other's places every day like they were when he was getting his degrees: for that amount of time, these things are cute, quirky, stuff that reminds them how fond they are of one another. 

Give it another week of really living together, though, and they're at each other's throats and hating it all the more because they both know how stupid it is. 

"I have cotton underwear, and I wear jeans or cotton slacks with cotton shirts to work, Maddie," he says, patiently, putting his bag down by the couch and coming into the kitchen. "Anything I got that needs more special care than that in the laundry just goes to the dry-cleaners. What do I need anything like that for?" 

She gives the slight sigh of dismissal that means he's right but she's still sure that somehow he's not. Then she puts down the spoon she's using to push things around in the pan long enough to give him a proper hug. 

Sam realizes it's been a while since his last hug, which is probably kinda sad, and definitely not healthy. He hugs her back hard enough that her back crackles a little, breath coming out in a little _huff_ noise. She pats the front of his shoulder. 

"Nnn, okay yeah, that feels better," she says. "Fucking airplanes, Sam, why the fuck do they even exist? Don't answer that," she adds, gently prodding him in the chest and then raising the finger like a really ineffectively mock-stern warning. 

"This smells amazing," he tells her and the mock-stern dissolves without a trace as she beams at him. 

"Kribich nan sós," she says. "Shrimp. It's actually pretty lazy. Go wash your hands, it's almost done, and I made cookies. It was that or sleep all day, and by noon I had a headache and everything on TV is pissing me off right now, so." 

"God I feel you," Sam says, with feeling, and does go to wash his hands and change into a more comfortable set of jeans and a t-shirt. His bathroom smells like Madlen, a mix of her perfume and her (mostly home-made) hair and skin-care stuff, and he notices she cleared all the stuff off his "not clean but not too dirty to wear again" chair in his bedroom, which means there's probably a load or two of his laundry to be folded. He shakes his head, half-smiling. 

He checks his phone while he's in his room, but the texts from Steve are just the casual continuation of non-urgent conversations Sam keeps going mostly to make sure the guy doesn't get a chance to sit and brood for more than a couple hours, and a picture of somewhere in Europe from Natasha. Sam's not entirely sure how to interpret the part where she sends him these things, little bits of what a normal friend might send a normal friend when they're travelling the world, but he's come down on deciding that really, that's exactly what they are. 

It's a bit clumsy and crude for someone who he knows can do what she does with people, but on the other hand he knows she's a mess. And _she_ knows that he knows. And maybe he should be kinda touched that she's letting herself keep trying even when she's forced to be this clumsy and odd about it. 

"Maybe", in that he's going to go with that interpretation until something tells him not to. 

Truth told he's kinda worried about her, but he's already floundering in one ocean way, way too deep for him. Sam figures he'll just take comfort in the fact that Steve seems to think that "she went and found Clint Barton" (whoever he is, and Sam hasn't managed to piece together much yet beyond him being one of the others handling the Battle of New York) means she'll be as okay as she can be, and leave it at that. Not like he could even find her, anyway. 

In a kind of serendipity, having just thought about that might even make him more prepared for the way that, after he comes back into the kitchen, Madlen immediately launches into, "So I damn sure wasn't going to ask over any kind of phone, but that _was you_ flying your crazy-ass around up there saving us from the evil empire with Captain America, wasn't it?" while she dishes the finished supper onto two plates of rice that smell a bit of coconut. 

At least it means his train of thought doesn't need to jump _two_ sets of tracks. The one is enough. He knew he'd have to talk to her about it eventually, of course, but he wasn't really thinking it'd be now. Honestly, he wasn't thinking ahead period. Probably should've. It's Madlen. It's probably been eating at her, as a question, since she walked in the _door_ and she's just managed to hold off till now. But he hadn't thought about it, that's all. 

Fortunately he doesn't have to overthink the answer much, so that's a small blessing. 

"Yes," he says, "yes it was. And yes," he goes on so she doesn't have to ask, "it was also me in the causeway clusterfuck since I'm sure you saw that too, and _yes_ , yes I _did_ almost get my crazy ass killed multiple times but no, I did not get injured beyond a few cuts and bruises, although frankly God only knows how." 

She stares at him, not in horror or in real disbelief, but just in . . . something else, in whatever you call the feeling where you want to to be shocked or disbelieving but you can't, because of who you're looking at. It used to drive him _nuts_ when she'd look at him like that, but it doesn't bother him nearly so much now. If nothing else, Riley'd helped him figure out why she really just couldn't stop. How it felt to be on the other end. 

Sam can only shrug. He takes the plate she hands him and moves towards the table. 

"Jesus fucking merciful Christ - Samuel Thomas Wilson how the _fuck_ did you get tangled up in that shit?" Madlen asks him, her voice actually pretty matter-of-fact beyond the explosive _fuck_ in the middle. She sits down across from him at the table, her plate in front of her, but clearly not planning on touching her food until he explains. Or starts to explain. 

Sam rubs his forehead. "You're not gonna believe it," he tells her, and points at her plate with the fork in his hand. "And I'm not wasting a good story by cutting it short, so eat your food before it gets cold while I tell you." 

"Oh Jesus," she mutters, but does at least pick up her fork. 

The shrimp stuff tastes as good as it smells, and Sam lets himself get a couple mouthfuls before he gives in to how he can feel her stare burning through his skull. He can't say he'd feel different, if their positions were reversed. 

He starts the story with, "So you know I still run every morning right," because damned if he _is_ going to waste the story. It's a fucking hilarious story, actually, as long as you aren't living through it at the moment. And for all that, this first bit was pretty funny even at the time. 

Actually, Madlen probably would've found the rest funny right then, too, because she's up to that. Sam's sense of humour is a little less harsh. 

"Uh-huh," Madlen says, eyeing him as she eats, knowing where he's going if he starts out with something so mundane about something so obviously not. 

"So I'm out there one morning and about a third of the way into my route this young guy sprints past me," he says. "Big guy, white, obviously pretty fit. Seen him around vaguely a couple times, never paid much attention." He shrugs. "I mean Jesus the sun isn't even up, I'm not out there to socialize, right?"

Madlen, who's seen him at four in the morning, waves her fork in acknowledgement. Sam says, "So I don't think much of it - he's doing sprints, calls out 'on your left', whatever. I mean he's fast, but what do I care." 

Madlen gives him a serious sideways look. "Mmkay," she says, drawing it out. She's clearly willing to let him wave off his competitive nature for now, which is good, because that'd spoil the punch-line. The first punchline, anyway. 

He takes another bite before he goes on, "Except then a while later, whoops, someone's saying 'on your left' and passing me again. And it's the same guy. And he's running the same fucking ridiculous speed. And you know my route, right," he says, as Madlen's eyes narrow. "There's no way to do anything like cut across and cut it short. So I think that's really fucking weird, but I dunno maybe he just looks a lot like the other guy, but - " 

"Oh my God," Madlen says, jumping the gun the way she does, "he did it again." 

"Oh yeah," Sam says, letting her, going with it. "He did it again. And at that point I know. I _know_ that out here on my God-damn morning run I got _Captain America_ being a little fuckin' shit and lapping me, because yeah, he _did_ do it again and he even says _on your left_ again, cuz he's a goddamn smart-ass." 

Madlen puts her fork down and hides her face in her hands. "Oh Samuel, oh Lord, you did _not_ try to catch up with him." 

Sam just eats his shrimp at her in a Communicative Silence and she looks heavenwards for a moment. "Samuel he's a goddamn mutated science-experiment you do _not_ have to compete with that," she says, in her most tragic-fond voice. "Did you land yourself in the ER?" 

"No," Sam says, with dignity. Then he admits, "I did land myself wheezing under a tree, which is where he came over to ask me if I needed a medic. And before you ask, nah, he was just messing around, not actually being an asshole. He came over and we talked a bit, he introduced himself -" 

Madlen's already giving him a Look, the one he knows, so when she says, "Oh my God in Heaven Sam you got a crush on him because he kicked your ass at running didn't you," he's already getting ready to ask her why the hell her mind _always_ goes there, right away, and to point out to her that liking guys does not in fact mean liking _any guy_ , even any good-looking guy. period. 

Unfortunately for him, though, she knows _him_ and she's already got one hand out, finger waggling at him. "Uh uh uh uh uh," she says, "don't even try, I _know_ you. You totally did." 

"You know what," Sam starts, and then capitulates at the intensification from a Look to The Look. Holds up his hands a little and waves it off. 

"God there is something wrong with your brain, baby," Madlen tells him, picking up her fork again. 

"Whatever," Sam says, dismissive, "my point _is_ , pretty quick I wasn't thinking about it like that anyway, because two words and it is so goddamn clear this guy needs more therapy than _I_ did, he might as well be your obnoxious ticket lady's brother or something, with it going across his forehead like a marquee." 

Madlen purses her lips, letting him sideline the crap about his Type, at least for now - thank God. 

"He'd kinda have to," she says, frowning. "I mean Jesus, everyone he ever knew is dead, he 'died'," and she makes scare quotes, even with her fork still in her right hand, so that hand only has one finger raised and curling, "in the middle of a damn war and then woke up seventy years in the fucking future, which must be like a sci-fi story or some shit for him, and what, like a week later we're getting attacked by fucking aliens? By the way," she says, as an aside, stabbing a shrimp with more anger than it deserves, "remember how that time I was talking about how much I hate being in a world where we get attacked by fucking aliens?" 

"Add evil science-Nazi empires to your list?" Sam supplies, because it's obvious. 

"So fucking much Sam. So fucking much. I like that, by the way, 'evil science-Nazis', I'm gonna go with that. Anyway, keep going," she instructs, "I assume you did that whole make-a-genuine-connection, coax-some-admission-outta-him thing you do so well," she says, and Sam shakes his head, smiling slightly. "What?" she says, shrugging. "You do. You're good at it, and you can spot the walking wounded at a hundred feet. It's a good thing. God knows most people're probably too awestruck to even approach him, much less talk to him like a normal human, and you're sweet. You invite him down to the VA?" 

"Who's telling this story?" Sam demands, but he's teasing, and she makes a face. "Yeah," he says. "And he came down once, skulked around the doorway at one of the groups. We talked a bit afterwards." 

Madlen shoots him a sideways look, swallows the mouthful she's got and says, "That bad, huh," and she's not even giving him shit now. She's just saying it, a bit sad, because Madlen can feel sorry for anyone and everyone. And she's not wrong, not even close to wrong. Sam sighs. 

"Jesus, Maddie," is what he says, and he lets himself put the feeling into the words, enough she gets even more sober. "You know what I said? You know what _all_ I said? I said we all had the same problems - I meant all the vets there, me included - and then after that all I got through saying were the words 'regret' and 'guilt' and he was asking me if I lost someone."

Madlen mimes a low whistle, cheeks puffing out and then deflating. "Wow," she says. "I don't think a marquee is big enough, babe, I think that's a flashing billboard."

"You're telling me," Sam agrees. "Took a chance and told him about Riley." 

"How bad?" she asks, and she means the identification - how bad did it seem like Steve was suddenly clutching at someone who might understand, at not being alone with it, at not being the only person. Sam lets his expression and the way he spreads his hands speak for themselves. She shakes her head, the way you do when that's all you can do. 

"Talked a bit more, talked about what he might do if he stopped working for SHIELD, whatever, he headed home. I was hoping he'd come back, that's all I thought about it. And now," he sighs, leaning back and looking up, "now we're at the parts of the story you gotta keep to yourself, Maddie, okay?" 

Madlen's leaning on her folded forearms on the table. "To my grave and under torture, baby," she says, quietly. "You know that." 

And he does. He does know that. There's a very, very few scenarios where Madlen might break his confidence without his express permission, but they're pretty goddamn specific, and frankly if Madlen needs to tell someone about this shit to save someone's life in the right-immediate here-and-now, Sam's pretty okay with her making that choice. 

"So two days later," he says, sitting up and leaning forward, mimicking her posture, "I get back from my run. I'm about to have some orange juice, get my breakfast, that kinda thing, and someone knocks at my door. At my _back_ door." 

"Oh Lord," Madlen says, as punctuation. Sam nods. 

"I open it up and there's Steve and this white girl who looks like a damn model, except they _both_ look like a tornado hit them. _Except_ , turns out it was a surface-to-surface missile, not a tornado." 

"You're fucking kidding me," Madlen blurts, her eyes big and round, and Sam shakes his head. 

"Steve says he's sorry but he didn't have anywhere else to go, and the girl says, and I quote, 'everyone we know is trying to kill us.' And Jesus, Maddie," he adds, as Maddie covers her face again by way of a reaction, "you know that look you say some of the women you work with get?" 

"You mean dissociative shock in the face of severe trauma?" Madlen says, bluntly, because apparently today is not a day for anything but the bluntly clinical - which says _she's_ been having a heavy time lately, too. "Yeah that's the kinda thing one of'em might come out with. Just flat, right, no tragedy and no humour, just it is what it is." 

"Yeah - but the creepy thing," Sam tells her, "is one shower and a quick talk with Steve later and she's brisk, businesslike, personable and totally normal - I mean serious and all, we got problems on our hands, but otherwise like it's a normal day at the office." 

Madlen stares at him. "Sam, that is so unhealthy." Her voice is very, very serious. " _So_ unhealthy. I have met women with that kind of compartmentalization and it is not good." 

"Yeah," he says. "Trust me, I know. Anyway. Turns out HYDRA tried to blow them up because they found out shit about what was going on. Steve gave me a bunch of bullshit about how he couldn't ask me to get back in after I got out - " Sam shrugs and waves it away, and Madlen doesn't even give him any grief, because they both know she'd've been right there with him. There's times when you can _say_ "this isn't my fight, this isn't my place, I'm done", and that was not one of them. That's been something they've always agreed on. 

"So," he goes on, taking a deep breath, "first we went and stole my wings from Fort Meade, and then we came b - " 

"Wait wait wait you just fucking waved off stealing classified military tech from _Fort Meade_ Sam do not even think I'm letting you get away with that," she says, indignant and Sam laughs. He'd been angling for that, he'll admit it. Technically she's not even supposed to know about the wings, and she knows it. 

"Yeah I did," he admits, "because I swear to fucking Christ Maddie _that's how it went_." At her dubious look he just shrugs, arms out. "My hand to God. We picked up a stash of shit Natasha - the Black Widow," he clarifies, realizing he hadn't actually named her yet, and Madlen acknowledges it with a wave, "had stuck in some gym's locker-room, she pulled something out of it, reprogrammed it, stuck it to the back door, it _killed_ the security systems, and all the rest of the systems in the place, for that matter. We walked in, she punched one guy out, another decided to just shut up and lock himself in the bathroom after Steve lifted him up by the throat, and we had the wings and we were gone. It was just about the creepiest, most unreal fucking moment in this whole mess and considering what this whole mess is that is saying something." 

Madlen blinks at him like five times, shakes her head and goes, "Okay. So -?" 

Sam chuckles bleakly, rubs his hand over his face and says, "So then we went and kidnapped Jasper Sitwell, SHIELD's chief of external ops - " 

" - oh my fucking Lord - " 

" - and Natasha terrified him into telling us what the fuck was going on by punting him off the top of a skyscraper," Sam goes on. 

Madlen mouths _Oh my fucking Lord_ again, silently. 

"I caught him, but apparently he doesn't love heights. So we find out about the fucking satellites, what the helicarriers are for, all of that. So we decide to hit the Triskelion, _now_ , and stop it and yeah that sounds fucking ridiculous but I had just watched Natasha walk through Fort Meade and we had Sitwell, there was no way there'd been long enough for them to set up the alarm yet, so we could use his biometrics to get us in, and all we had to do was fuck the helicarriers up enough they couldn't launch before we got the news out about the satellites and the plan." Sam shrugs. "I mean shit would hit the fan after that but that was for after: just that far, well, that was that. Simple." 

Madlen's closed her eyes like she's thinking, watching the thoughts on the inside of her eyes. "This is where the shoot-out comes in, isn't it," she says flatly. 

"Fuck, Maddie," Sam says, and for a moment he has what doesn't actually count as a flashback but comes pretty close. He takes a deep breath. "I was pretty goddamn sure I was gonna die. I don't remember a lot about the first few minutes," he clarifies. "Not until the guy attacking us smashed his hand down through my windshield and _yanked my steering wheel out of the car_." 

She stares at him. 

"Out of the steering column," he confirms. "Out of the _car_. One hand, got a hold of it, took it out like it was made of fucking, I don't know, fucking tissue paper. Then Natasha was yanking me over on top of her and Steve and shooting at the roof and we bailed out on the passenger side door plus Steve's shield, something - I don't know, if it'd been just me I'd've died, I don't exactly remember those seconds, not really. I cannot fucking believe I made it out of there with a bit of road rash. And all I can do is thank God I did decide to stay fucking fit, because, fuck." He unconsciously rubs the back of his neck, where the suit used to abrade his skin. 

Madlen lets her breath out, slowly, her mouth in the shape of an O. 

"Skipping the blow-by-blow," Sam says, "because it's not important and like I said I'm not sure how much I actually remember or how much I figured out later. The shoot out was on the news, it was a fucking mess, I took a guy out for his rifle and then it was just . . . " he shrugs, "the sandbox, again, except it's fucking DC. I managed to get my wings out of the car after I dealt with, I dunno - basically all of them except the guy who yanked out my steering wheel. He'd gone off after Natasha, the other guys had Steve pinned down in a bus for a bit, but like I said I took a gun from one of them and handled him, so then Steve went off after the main guy. After the others were either dead or run off, I got the wings out of the trunk and went off after Steve too."

"Wait," Madlen interrupts, "what happened to the kicked-off-the-roof guy?" 

"Oh," Sam says, and then laughs, humourless. "I didn't really see it, I was trying to drive, but apparently the guy attacking us first thing he did was reach in through the back window, pull Sitwell out and throw him in front of a semi going the other way. Hopefully nobody else got hurt, but fucked if I know." 

He has to stop and take a breath before he goes on. "It was pretty bad. Natasha got shot. Luckiest fucking shoulder through-and-through I have ever seen in my _life_ ," he adds, vehemently. "Like I dunno I think she'd probably already used up a lifetime's luck in her lifetime so I don't know who she borrowed another whole lifetime's supply from but she did. Clean and simple, just . . . " he trails off for a second. 

Across the table, Madlen just leans her chin on her hand, waiting. Sam shrugs, shaking off the memories, especially the smell. It's easier to do, with the spices from the fish right under his nose. "Steve got there before the guy shot her in the head," he says, "then they fought, except then he froze, I managed to kick the guy in the head before he shot Steve and then Natasha managed an unexpected shot - " he waves his hand, stopping himself. "Said I was skipping the blow-by-blow. Point is, after that for some reason the guy took off." 

He scrubs his face. "I had to help Natasha. She was bleeding out. And Steve was just standing there like someone turned his brain off. So wound up all three of us in the back of a SHIELD - aka HYDRA - prisoner van on our way to get shot in the back of the head and stuck in a shallow grave somewhere." 

"You're leaving something out," Madlen says, quiet, because she really does know him. "Why'd Captain America freeze, Sam? Not like it's his first rodeo." 

Sam feels his mouth curve up, even if it is kinda humourless. "Yeah, kinda," he admits. He drags his hands over his face, sighs. "You know the story, right. Why Captain America was anything other than a movie-star at all, that whole bit." 

She frowns at him, but she goes with it, says, "Yeah, he found out his best friend's company got wiped out or some shit and took off after them, went AWOL but it worked out so they decided to go PR with it." 

"Yeah," Sam says. "So what I'm leaving out is, turns out that guy who was trying to kill us was that best friend."

Madlen doesn't say anything. Madlen's face doesn't even change expression. That's pretty much as good as a shriek of disbelief, except that she knows he wouldn't bullshit right now, about this. 

Sam notices he's got his arms crossed over his chest, and it's pure defensive posture, and he couldn't even say exactly why but he doesn't bother doing anything about it. He says, "They did something to him when he was in that factory back in World War Two that meant he didn't die when he fell down the fucking canyon, they picked him up outta the snow later, somehow wiped his memories of everything, turned him into a superweapon. His face was covered most of the fight, until at the end; Steve was acting like a robot with a hard-drive crash because the cover came off and he recognized him." 

There's a long minute where Madlen stares into the middle distance. She doesn't ask any questions, or say _seriously_ or _you're fucking kidding_ or anything like it. She just stares into the middle distance and Sam lets her. 

Then she folds her own arms, and looks up at the ceiling. Presses her lips together and takes a deep breath - several deep breaths - and chews on the inside of her cheek. Stays quiet, the whole long minute. 

After that long minute she says, still quiet but every single word, every consonant clear and crisp and precise, "There is literally nothing about this being real that I do not hate, Sam. Nothing. Not one fucking thing."

Sam doesn't really have anything to say to that. Even agreement isn't . . . vehement enough. 

"That's fucking awful," she says. "That they can do that is _fucking_ awful. And fucking terrifying." 

Then she takes a breath again, like she's shaking it off and says, "How the fuck did you get out of the fucking van?"

"You know the Maria Hill that's been at all the Congressional hearings?" Sam asks, happy enough to get past _that_ part of the story and into maybe some of the parts that are more ridiculous and less nauseating. 

"The white lady with the dark hair," Madlen says, "always looks like she wishes she could be pouring herself a shot. Not that I blame her."

Sam half-smiles. "Yeah, her. Somehow she got into the STRIKE-team backup unit and she was in the van - full riot gear, including helmet, and in the back of the van with us. About five minutes into the ride I decided if I was gonna die anyway I'd take the chance, so I got up in their faces about Natasha needing fucking medical attention - at which point Hill took out the other guard, pulled off her helmet and asked who I was anyway. Then she cut a hole in the lockup where my wings were and cut a hole in the bottom of the carrier and the next time the fuckers hit a stop-sign we went underneath. Then she stole a van and drove us to the _secret_ secret backup hideout." 

He stops short of telling her about Fury. It's not something that needs to get brought up, and honestly knowing'd probably just put her in danger. 

"From there we put together our utter fucking suicidal next-day plan and went for it," he says, and Madlen snorts with the amusement that's half about breaking tension. He adds, "After we stole Steve's old uniform from the Smithsonian."

"Oh my God," Madlen says, putting a hand over her face. 

"Then, well, you saw it," Sam says. "It was fucking terrifying. About halfway through the amnesiac human superweapon tore the suit up and grounded me and then we get to the part you didn't see, which is even more fucking insane." 

Madlen puts her other hand over her face as well. 

"Which is where I ended up trying to keep fucker from STRIKE from getting up to fuck with the part of things Natasha was handling and I hope never to fight that far out of my weight class _again_ , Maddie, I am too old for that shit and that fucker was on steroids and fucking meth at _least_. But then Steve got the thing into place on the helicarriers that gave Hill control of their targeting systems and she blew them, so one of them crashed into the building, which was great in that it fucking wiped that asshole out but in order not to go with him I had to throw myself out the breaking windows into the helicopter Natasha brought around." 

Sam has to admit that he enjoys telling it just like that, just like it'd _felt_ when it happened, which is to say completely _fucking_ ludicrous, impossible, and insane. And Madlen's a great audience for it. The hands drop down from her face and she _stares_ at him, mouth open. 

"Uhhuh," he agrees. 

"So whose fucking lifetime of fucking luck did _you_ fucking drain?" she demands, voice rising a bit, which is fair. 

"Whoever it is, I'm grateful?" is all Sam can say, because yeah that . . . more or less sums it up. 

Madlen makes a wordless gesture before settling on, "Well someone up there fucking loves you a lot, Samuel Wilson. I know it's not your thing but you better, just, you better fucking go put some nice flowers on your mom's grave and Riley's, and stuff. Or something. _Jesus_. Out the fucking _window?_ " 

"Into the helicopter," he confirms. "And no my life did not flash before my eyes, there wasn't enough room in my head with all the screaming." 

Her hands are pressed together, and Madlen presses the edge of both of them to her mouth. "Okay," she says, "no, keep going, I know you're not quite done, let's finish it." 

"Hooked up with the EMT's after the shit-show and eventually we found the idiot - Steve, I mean - on the riverside almost fucking dead. Though honest to God Maddie," Sam notes, "I don't think that guy has an 'almost dead'. Either you've cut his head off or he's gonna survive it. The pure fucking level of physical trauma he survived that day - " 

He has to stop, just shakes his head. The two bullets, those'd been bad, and the stab wound, but they hadn't been the worst - he'd had fucking . . .cracks in his skull, he'd had ruptured organs, the fucking idiot had so many broken bones it wasn't _funny_ and there's just no fucking way he should have lived. It's flat disturbing if Sam thinks about it too much, so he tries not to. And is trying not to, right now. 

Madlen leans on her forearms on the table, and looks like she's slotting things into place in her head again, for just a minute. 

"For the record, it is really, really weird hearing you talk about Captain America with his first name," she says, in a voice as normal as she can make it, like she's kind of trying to move on, move along. "And calling him names. I get it, but it's weird. I just want you to know that." 

Then after Sam doesn't answer her for a second she says, "There's more, isn't there." 

"I need a drink," Sam says, which is only kind of an answer, but also only kind of a dodge. He gets up to go find the rum in his cupboard and pour himself some, holds up the bottle like a question. 

"Oh hell yeah," Madlen says, vehement, "sure, now that I am absolutely terrified about what you're gonna tell me, hit me," he pours her some too. He slides the glass over to her and sits back down. 

"You sure you want to know?" he asks her. 

"Jesus Christ Sam, the last time _I_ asked _you_ that, I was talking about burying dead babies," she says, staring at him. He feels another mirthless smile on his face and shakes his head. 

"Not that gross," he says. "Maybe not that sad." Then he has to admit, "Probably still just about as disturbing, though," because it's Madlen, and she _will_ pick up all the implications, all the . . . stuff that what Sam's going to say implies. "And really, really not something to talk about, to the point I might actually lie about ever telling you and if I do you should back me up." 

"Oh Christ," Madlen murmurs, and then something else Sam doesn't quite catch even quieter, and takes a drink of the rum. "Okay," she says, "hit me." 

"Steve's friend survived the Insight crash," Sam tells her. "Was responsible for most of the damage to Steve, because after the chips got switched and Hill blew the carriers, Steve decided he'd rather let the guy beat him to death than live in a world where the guy didn't remember him. And I mean he was going to, he _did_ lie there and let him." 

He turns his glass, looking at the rum and trying not to think on that too much. "Steve swears he stopped before the helicarrier broke apart, and Steve ended up in the river." Sam looks at Madlen and half-shrugs with one shoulder. "He _also_ swears the guy must've been the one to pull him out of the river in the first place, and I gotta admit, there's no way Steve got where he was on the bank by himself. Then the guy disappeared. So after he got out of the hospital, Steve took off looking for him." 

He takes a swallow of the rum and lets the burn in his throat be a grounding thing, an anchor. "I went with him," he says. 

" . . . you find him?" Madlen asks. She's turning her glass, fingers spread out over the top, but she's watching him. 

"No," Sam says. "No, instead he showed up at Steve's place about two months ago. He's there now."

". . .well _shit_ ," says Madlen and then frowns when Sam chokes out a bark of laughter. 

"That's exactly what I said," he tells her. "Literally. But yeah. Didn't expect that. I didn't, Steve didn't, nobody did. I - yeah." He can only shrug again, that's all he's _got_ to try and get across the feeling. 

And this is when it sort of wells up and falls out. All of it. 

"I don't know what the fuck we're doing, Maddie," he admits to her, and only would to her, really. "I don't even know what we fucking _think_ we're doing. I don't - I don't even know what the fuck the best is we think can happen?" He runs a hand over his head, shakes his head, shrugs again. "This guy's head is like a fucking bomb site. He's like the worst fucking mix of a dementia patient and a TBI horror story _and_ a fucking Korean POW shitshow on top of it - except because apparently that's not enough, he's strong enough to pull me out of the air _with the suit_ going _full blast_ and he spent the last _seventy motherfucking years_ being their fucking weapon, so I don't even know what our best case scenario can be here, I just - " 

He trails off. Madlen watches and waits, with the face that says she gets it. Which he needs. Needed. Which is why he sort of kind of asked her to come, which is why he called her. So she'd come here and he could tell her and she's know. And she'd _get it_. 

Get not just how bad it is but why Sam's doing it anyway and why it's important and why - okay, also why it's messing him up. But also get that he can handle it, and that he has to. Just . . . someone who'd get it. 

"I just know," he says, quieter and slower, "that if anyone tries to do _shit_ , they try to do anything either with him or to him and he doesn't want it, they will do it over Steve Rogers' dead body and there'll be a lotta other dead bodies first, people who do not need to die. And maybe our _one chance_ is I can maybe fucking coach Steve so he can get this guy to a point where this isn't what we're looking at. One chance. 

"So there's no other choice except . . . try to find something, and hopefully do it _before_ something goes wrong or some fucking alphabet-soup group of fucking _assholes_ decides to do something stupid. Madlen, it's entirely fucking possible our best case scenario is this guy decides to eat a bullet, and if he does that I'm _still_ gonna have a friend that'll probably _break_. And the kinda broken you don't get better from." 

He stops and stares at his plate, at the food half-eaten. He lifts one hand and drops it. "So that's what happened, and what's going on, and now you know," he finishes. "That's why I called. I'm sorry," he adds, "you got your own shit, I know, but - and I can't fucking talk about it on the phone. Not all the way where you were." 

It honestly sounds worse now that he's _said it_ out loud. And he really doesn't know what the hell they think they're doing. 

Sam doesn't really register Madlen standing up until she's pushing at his shoulder. "Sam, get up," she says. "You need a damn hug." 

He does, but he moves kinda mechanically. He knows it. Madlen's still a head shorter than he is, but she manages to make it feel like she's the one wrapping him up in the hug anyway. His vision's blurry and his eyes are the kind of too-hot that comes from welling tears, so he closes them and rests his forehead on the top of hers, bridge of his nose against her headband. 

"How much Riley-shit is this hitting, babe?" she demands of his shoulder and Sam laughs a slightly ragged half-laugh. 

"Fuck you do not want me to tell you that," he replies, and her arms tighten. For that matter he doesn't want to fucking think about that. Or how many different angles. It'll ease off, he knows it will, it always does - but fuck. 

"No more fucked up soldier boys, Samuel," she tells him, firm. "This is your limit, alright? All done. You can help them at work but no more with this shit. You do not do it on a volunteer basis too, not anymore. Fuck. I mean, I bet nobody's even like, fucking paid you for saving the world, considering how the fucking Feds hushed everything up." 

The ragged laugh sort of keeps going because she's just . . . Madlen. Really, really Madlen. "Hey," he says. "It's not all bad. Tony Stark might be building me my own wings," 

_Now_ she says, "You're fucking with me right now." 

"He said he was gonna," Sam tells her. "Keeps sending me emails asking me for handling details on the old ones, too." 

"Well at least he's good for _something_ ," she mutters. And Sam knows he should probably let go and they should go sit on a couch or back at the table like normal human beings, but he's been short of hugs for a while. So he doesn't. 

Instead he points out, "To be fair, the guy was in hospital for acute malaria and still managed to sort out the Iron Patriot suit sabotage in time to get Rhodes in the air before the HYDRA fighters could switch from chasing me to bombing the fuck out of DC. Before apparently landing back in the hospital, the way I heard it. He'd've been in the air himself but he was pretty wiped out." 

"Okay," Madlen says, grudgingly, "I've had malaria, and I just had the normal kind, I'll give him that one." 

And now she loosens her hold on him and steps back. Looks up and wipes at the space under his eyes with her thumbs. "I'm dead fucking serious though Sam, okay? You do broken soldiers at _work_ where you've got _boundaries_ and shit and your day _ends_ \- well okay kinda, as much as any - okay shut up," she says, as he can't quite stop laughing, "you know what I mean. Yeah okay, Riley was your best friend, and yeah okay you are probably saving a whole bunch of people's lives helping out this one, but seriously that's _it_ for excuses too okay? You are done, you are at your limit. And yes I am absolutely the fucking pot calling the kettle black here but that just means _I should know_ okay?" 

"I wasn't gonna say anything," Sam tells her and she rolls her eyes, leaning on the table. He holds up his hands in surrender and says, "How is Ruis, anyway?" 

Not that Ruis was ever officially a soldier, but that doesn't mean much, depending where you are in the world. And it didn't mean much for him. 

"Okay," she says. "Over all. He's sleeping better, makes a big difference. Or he was, anyway, that . . . doesn't work so well when I'm away, but he couldn't get a passport in time and I gotta be here - yeah, I did, Samuel," she says, prodding him in the shoulder. "Don't try that. We both know that was you asking me, and it takes a lot before you do that." 

"You've got enough needy people in your life, Maddie," he tells her and she shrugs. 

"Yeah I wasn't saying that was _bad_ ," she replies, a bit aloof, because that's a load of shit and she totally would say that was bad - but on the other hand she really does have a lot of calls on her time. "Just that it does. Now I'm not wondering anymore. For the record." 

Then she says, "Let's go sit on the couch, this isn't comfy." 

 

She grills him a bit more, but that's okay. 

That's probably a bit unfair as a way to put it, but Madlen asking questions always comes out like it's a grilling, so Sam goes with it. It's filling in details, stuff she wanted to understand better but let go by when he was telling the story. Eventually she shakes her head. 

"I'm fucking pissed you don't have a medal," she says, flatly. "Seriously. A medal and a fucking annuity and fucking . . . everything. Everything about the way they're handling this is fucking bullshit. All of it." 

Sam sighs. "You know for once I'm not even gonna argue," he admits. "I should absolutely have a goddamn medal. And like. An award. Or something." 

She purses her lips. "You know what," she says, "if nothing's happened by then, you let me know when it's not gonna fuck other stuff up," and she makes a dismissive gesture with one hand, "and then you know - I know some people, we can start making noise. I mean it!" she says, as if he was going to argue. "I mean for you for sure - but God, now that I think about it, I'm sure there's a crapload of other people who should at least be getting some fucking acknowledgement and I bet right now all they're getting is subpoenas. But you especially. You're a God-damned hero, I hope you know that." 

"I have had enough rum that you need to stop," he tells her, half-serious, "or you're gonna make me cry." 

"Yeah like that'd be the first time," she retorts. "Besides I am still one up on you for breakdowns on your shoulder." 

"You'd just had a cholera outbreak," Sam says. "You were burying kids. I think I can spot you that one." 

"I think we shouldn't be keeping score," she retorts. "And don't you say shit, I only keep track because if I don't you _lose_ six or seven of mine and start acting like you're the worst." 

Sam gestures with his glass. "You know, this is exactly why we couldn't get married," he says, mock-solemnly. And only partly because his eyes are watery again. 

"No, we couldn't get married because you are incapable of learning how to do the goddamn laundry _or_ keep food from going bad in your fridge," she fires back. 

They're both smiling, because this is old, old water under a comfortable, reliable bridge. Madlen leans her chin on her hand and says, "You know, I kept asking Ruis if he was sure it didn't bother him. Me staying here. And you know what he said?" 

Sam shakes his head, because he actually can't think of it. 

"He said no, because the way I talk about you if I still actually wanted you there'd be no way I'd've even been around to meet him. Now I'm not sure I believe that so we'll see how things are when I get back," she notes and Sam gives an involuntary cough of laughter, "but it still stuck with me." 

"It sounds pretty smart," Sam admits, "but I'm not sure how good my judgement is right now, so probably take that with some salt." 

Madlen tilts her head. "Now," she says, with the change of tone that says she's sort of changing a subject, "I'm just assuming you're not dating, but did you at least go screw Captain America out of your system in the downtime - ?" 

"Jesus Christ Maddie, somewhere out there your gramma is turning in her grave so much we should hook her up to a fucking generator and she'd power the city," he says, and she cackles in delight, because that reaction is mostly why she said it in the first place. Her gramma had loved her deeply and expressively, but had also honestly had more than one actual time where she almost wailed about Madlen's fundamental refusal to let a sense of propriety get in the way of things she thought were important. 

" _Well?_ " she demands, and Sam puts a hand over his face. The back of his neck is absolutely hot. 

"I'm not answering that question," he says, getting up and holding out a hand for her now-empty glass, since he's going to refill his own. Especially after _that_. 

"That _is_ an answer!" Madlen calls after him. 

 

They talk until around two in the morning, because Sam's working from home tomorrow and every time he tries to say she needs to go to bed because the conference starts she waves it off on the basis that it's just afternoon sign in and Sam gives up. Sam lets her grill him a few steps further, for specifics, because God knows she's got her own intimate familiarity with kinds of trauma that are a few degrees off from what he sees and even what Laura saw before she came to the VA, and different kinds of limitations on how to deal with it, on resources, expectations of what you can _use_ to deal with it. Might make for different insights. 

He figures it can't hurt. 

"I mean I don't think anyone's ever dealt with anything exactly like it," she says, gazing thoughtfully upwards like somehow the ceiling's going to offer some insight. "It's kinda . . . specific." 

"Jesus Maddie," Sam exhales, "I'm just really hoping the reason there's only one of him come out of HYDRA in the first place is that you need some kinda super-soldier-shit to survive it, or something." 

As she takes that in, Madlen's expression shifts to the one that says _golly fucking gosh thank you for those nightmares_ and she closes her eyes like she's praying, briefly. She might be, even. And he would not blame her. She rests her glass against her forehead. 

"God I hope you're right," she says, quietly, and soberly. "The nightmare someone could make with that kinda tech if it's not - God." 

"I want to think it has to be that," Sam says. "HYDRA obviously didn't have more than one, or we'd've seen them on Insight, and I can't think Pierce would've been stupid enough not to have more than the one if he could've. But I don't know, not for sure." 

Madlen stares at the wall, and then takes a deep breath. "Well," she says. "I'll keep my eyes open." It's the same kind of voice she uses for hoping there won't be another earthquake.

"But anyway," she goes on, "I don't think you'll find anything that's all right about stuff? But you could look at cult survivors - not right away, not when it's still about deprogramming exactly, but after. Once they do know how the cult fucked them over. How they deal with that. Child soldiers - fuck," she interrupts herself, "you know, there's a UK outfit that does a lot of therapy work with people getting out of slavery, Helen Bamber Foundation, they might have some stuff you could find something useful in." She reaches over to where her purse is on the coffee-table and digs out a little notebook and a pen to write down the name for him, and some others. 

Madlen has pretty strong Views on how most people call the modern stuff "human trafficking" or some other name, and always has. She's got the same thing with calling stuff "bullying" or "hazing": as far as she's concerned, when someone beats up someone else it's called _assault_ , when it's systematic and constant it's called _physical abuse_ , when someone uses emotional harm to control or attack someone else it's called _emotional abuse_ and someone being owned and sold and shipped over the damn world and used for shit against their will is called _slavery_ , and she thinks using other words lets people flinch away from realizing all of that, and helps let the injustices go on. 

Sam's never quite decided if he _completely_ agrees that there's _no_ use in having the specific words, that there's no reason to differentiate between something like the Atlantic slave trade and what goes on with fishery labour in Thailand or in places in the sex-trade in the US, but he can't deny she does have a point overall. And if there is a use in having the differentiation, it's not because one is less bad than the other. 

There are about five names on Madlen's list, before she carefully tears out the page and puts it on the table and then leans back against Sam's side again. She looks at him. "Think he can hack it?" she asks, and when Sam has a minute of trouble shaking off his wandering thoughts and following hers, she adds, "Your friend. With his friend." 

Probably means something, her re-framing that from everything else Steve is to "your friend", but Sam's getting tired. All he can really do is answer, and only with the truth. 

"I honestly don't know," he says. "I know he'll try. But this'd be a huge fucking thing for the world's calmest, carefullest, most even-keeled guy and Steve is . . . not that. Any of that. It's just . . . " he sighs. "As far as I can see Maddie there's _one_ option for this turning out okay and all the other ones are bad. And if some of them are worse, they're all bad enough that it's not worth thinking about the lesser of two evils - you might as well aim for the one chance and then deal with however it falls out." 

She leans over to rest her elbow on the arm of the couch, her chin on her fist. "Well," she says. "If it helps, I don't think you're wrong." 

"Kinda does, yeah," Sam admits, and she reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. 

"I kinda wish you were dating someone, though," she says, and it startles Sam into laughing and giving her a funny look. She makes a face. "I'm gonna run myself ragged with these conferences and everything else, and then I'm gonna go home and tell Ruis I really need him to hold me and pet my head and tell me I'm pretty and brilliant and totally capable of changing the world. It makes a difference. You're doing all this, and you come home to an empty house. I'd be lying if I didn't say it's making me a bit worried." 

"Yeah," Sam says, sidestepping that a little by going on, "but you were indoctrinated by your gramma to be absolutely sure any man living without a woman looking after him was gonna shrivel away and possibly die, so - " 

"It could be a guy!" Madlen protests. "I'm open to equal possibilities here! I just want someone around to give you a hug and say nice things to you!" 

Sam laughs, and pats her knee. "I'll be fine," he says. 

"You always say you'll be fine," she points out. 

"Haven't been wrong yet," Sam counters, and she rolls her eyes. 

 

Sam does actually feel better, as he falls asleep. Nothing's changed at all, not really, but he feels better. It's funny how that does work.


End file.
